


Tricks

by lazarus_girl



Series: GGSM Prompts [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:02:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana doesn’t have a girlfriend anymore. She definitely doesn’t do relationships with anyone else either, but every time Quinn comes to visit, they have <i>something</i> going on. What was once an exception is fast becoming a rule.</p><p>
  <i>"Truth be told, they didn’t plan any of this. It just keeps happening."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tricks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waywardcherry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardcherry/gifts).



> [GGSM](http://trainwrecky.livejournal.com/1320.html?thread=29736#t29736) prompt fill for the lovely [@waywardcherry](http://waywardcherry.tumblr.com). Follows canon. Set post 4x14. My first solo foray into writing Quinntana. I listened to Rae & Christian a lot whilst writing this, and their track ['Ready to Roll'](http://youtu.be/hSPwqr3o1X8) inspired the mood of the story (and the music featured) so feel free to listen along. Thank you, as ever, to [cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com) for her beta skills and cheerleading.

***

 _“Starved for affection, terrified of abandonment,_  
 _I began to wonder if sex was really just an excuse_  
 _to look deeply into another human being's eyes.”_  
― Douglas Coupland, _Generation X: Tales for an Accelerated Culture_.

***

Santana was the one who suggested she and Quinn make it a two-time thing. No drama. No strings and definitely no feelings. She hasn’t got the time or the patience for that anymore. Depending on how you define it, right about now, they’re on to being an eight-time thing. Nine, if she chooses to count the little warm-up activity in the bathroom back at the loft while everyone else was preening themselves and getting dressed to come to this weird ass UV party in some dilapidated warehouse-turned-club in the middle of nowhere that’s got _CSI_ location written all over it. Any second, she’s convinced the whole thing will get shut down by the cops. The drinks are terrible and way too expensive, but at least she hasn’t got carded. She also hasn’t got hit on, but the night is young and so's she.

How she got dragged into this, she’s not sure, but Adam’s surprisingly persuasive – it’s the British charm and the baby blues; she’s weak really – and at least they get to go somewhere off the tourist trail and a little more real when he’s in charge of their social calendar. Truth is, she does know. She wanted to come, she waited until they asked, paranoid they might not, because, maybe, she’s past the point where she’s OK with watching The Kurt and Rachel Show unfold without her, and doesn’t want to get left behind anymore. That, and the idea of living in this city alone is kind of terrifying, so it drives her to do weird things, like tolerate Rachel’s incessant need for “new experiences” or Kurt’s continuous whining about her “work-life balance.” She doesn’t have balance – having three jobs does that to you. Oh, and then there’s Rachel’s painfully transparent attempts at matchmaking. Santana will give Rachel her due though; she has a pretty good eye, even if she’s not exactly subtle. Every introduction Rachel’s made is to a tall blue-eyed blonde. She’s swapped numbers sometimes, had a couple of one-night stands, and been on what most people probably consider dates, but her heart isn’t really in it. Not right now. 

Rachel gets an ‘A’ for effort, if nothing else.

In her grand list of life plans, nowhere did she outline being Quinn _fucking_ Fabray’s New York fuckbuddy, because it’s Quinn for God’s sake. Lucy Quinn Fabray, the previously straight, goody-two-shoes embodiment of Christian virtue. That’s repression for you, she guesses. Still, she didn’t imagine being the fuckbuddy of anyone but some rich lawyer or doctor (or the rich lawyer or doctor’s son) either, but life had other plans, like discovering things a million times better. Things like Brittany, and girls in general, and their beautiful bodies that she’ll never get tired of looking at or wanting to explore and devour inch-by-inch, and the wondrousness of steady orgasms, because she’s sleeping with someone who actually knows what they’re doing and isn’t solely focussed on their own pleasure.

Quinn doesn’t get it all her way. Oh no. There have been times when Santana resisted, refused to drop everything just to remind her who’s boss. After all, Quinn is the one with the good girl reputation. God knows, if Rachel found out about what’s been happening, she’d probably spontaneously combust. There’s always been an energy with those two she could never figure out.

Truth be told, they didn’t plan any of this. It just keeps happening. When Quinn’s here, breaking off from her snobby intellectual Yallie friends to come and visit everyone back in the real world, they almost always end up sleeping together. At the very least, they get their mack on for a good amount of time on the couch while everyone else is asleep, because they have to go through the charade of pretending they don’t share a bed (or in this case, a mattress). They haven’t set anything down, none of this binding, but essentially, it’s pretty simple: when Quinn’s here, Santana is hers, and vice versa. That’s it. No more, no less. They get some damn good sex out of it; Quinn’s a surprisingly fast learner, and she’s a good teacher – it’s the only time she’s remotely patient. There’s no lovey-dovey crap, and no tears when she wakes up alone in her bed the next morning. When she thinks about it like that, it sounds messed up. It kind of is; definitely the wrong side of healthy, even if it’s a lot of fun. They don’t analyse it, and thank God they don’t, because Quinn’s bound to start throwing all the psychological theories around, and spew some shit about it being a coping mechanism in response to losing Brittany and dropping out and hauling ass to New York. Whatever, there are two people in this, and no one’s complaining. It’s just about need, about want. Santana knows what she wants, and right now, Quinn can give it to her, getting whatever the hell it is she needs in return.

Like always, Santana has eyes everywhere, and not because there are some seriously hot girls in tiny shorts and tiny tops – it’s all on show, it’d be rude not to at least look and praise their efforts with a wink and a smile – but because Rachel and Kurt look so out of place it’s not even funny. Rachel’s wearing one of those stupid UV headband things (she tossed her own as soon as she could, but the bracelets and the peace necklace are still on, mostly because Quinn put them on her) and Kurt’s waving glow sticks around like a maniac. It’s all a little try-hard and tragic, but hey it if makes them happy, then whatever, there are worse ways to be than happy. They’re cheap drunks, and she wants to make sure they don’t end up getting roofied or something, even though Adam is with them, because they’re both far too trusting and far too eager to expand their horizons. The last thing she wants to have to do is call up Rachel’s dads and get lectured or deliver the kind of news that’ll send Burt Hummel barrelling into an early grave. So, she steps up and plays bodyguard unprompted, and most of the time, unrewarded. Rachel’s skin to clothes ratio is way off, and it’s getting her all kinds of attention, and not all of it is the right kind, but on the bright side, Kurt looks like he’s died and gone to boy heaven, because the guys here are decent too; flirting with him shamelessly even though he’s got Prince Charming on his arm.

Though it’s not her thing anymore, Santana can appreciate a pretty face when she sees one. 

What’s left of her divided attention is all focussed on Quinn, dancing feet away from her; drunk enough for her limbs to be loose; all slow turns and fluid motion. She’s just going with the music and it’s getting to be sexy; Quinn’s starting to let go – Santana should know, she’s seen how far Quinn can go, and how handsy she gets when she’s trashed – and the sketchy looking dude in front of her is lapping it up, two seconds from going in for the kill. Quinn’s hands are in her hair, eyes closed, lips parted, just so. She’s ready for something and Santana knows exactly what that is. Quinn looks good tonight, and not just because she’s wearing one of Santana’s dresses so the hem hits even higher that it does on her. It’s the music, that bass heavy, dreamy electronic shit that all these places are obsessed with, and finds herself unconsciously moving to out of habit. No, it’s the lights, Santana reasons; the delirious shade of blue-purple everyone’s cast in that makes Quinn look prettier than Santana would like to admit. Jesse St. Douchebag always used to call her “The Ghost of Grace Kelly,” and yeah, she can see it, the guy was pretty on the money; if it’s even possible to imagine someone like Grace pulling off trashy sexy, dancing their ass off in a swarm of people at a Bushwick rave.

She swallows hard, slamming down her glass on to the bar she’s been leaning against. Santana’s not jealous. Not at all, but there’s something that feels suspiciously like it surging through her body, making her fist curl at her sides, seriously contemplating punching the guy’s lights out because his hands are all over Quinn, groping her boobs and her ass and she’s just backing into him, letting him do it. It occurs to Santana that Quinn might be doing this on purpose, because they’re screwed up like that. They like to mess with each other’s heads; bitch and tease and bait each other, because it’s fun, and Quinn’s a pretty decent adversary. Once, when things would get heated like that, they’d fight it out; scratch and slap the shit out of each other until it got broken up and they were marched to Figgins’ office. Now they just fuck.

Except, something about this doesn’t feel quite right, and it’s making her edgy. The kind of edgy that brings Snix out to play. If she’s not careful, things could get messy real quick for her and Quinn – the kind of messy that leaves her sitting on the sidewalk with a bloody nose while they wait for the cops. She starts to move toward Quinn, arms up as she cuts her path through the sea of bodies, so it looks like she’s dancing too and they won’t think she’s weird – if anyone else is even on this planet, because she feels like the sober one in this hipster Dante’s Inferno, and she’s at least four drinks down. She scouts around, smiling when anyone catches her eye, but really it’s to see if any of the others are watching, but as usual, they’re too busy being all hedonistic and self-absorbed. OK, so she pretty much despised Brody, but the boy had his uses when they needed to haul around furniture or to sock some asshole in the mouth for being less than gentlemanly. Plastic Man’s gone, and Adam’s otherwise engaged with his tongue down Kurt’s throat, so it’s up to her to get on her white charger, ride in and save the day. Again. Why does she always have to be the adult?

Now she’s in the middle of the dancefloor, about three people away from Quinn – everyone in this place has gravitated towards her; bees to fucking honey, as usual – the heat is beyond oppressive. They really need to start going to clubs with roof spaces, where they aren’t all packed in like sardines, because even if she reaches her, she’s not sure they’ll be able to find their way out again. It’s just like a wall of people and music, and she can barely hear herself think. She squeezes through a gap that’s created when the crowed moves en masse in time with the song hitting its peak, and then, there she is. Quinn Fabray in all her glory – dishevelled and utterly delicious. Just how Santana likes her. It’s hot. Really hot, because Quinn’s usually always so neat and measured and put together, that it’s nice to see her looking the total opposite. There’s only one person who’s going to get to share their bed with Quinn tonight, and no way in _hell_ will it be the skeevy bastard child of Bruno Mars and Johnny Depp that’s draped all over her.

Actions speak louder than words, and Santana’s going to break out the bullhorn once she has Quinn’s attention. 

“Santana! There you are!” Quinn yells, suddenly launching at her, threading her arms around Santana’s neck. Even so, she can only just about hear her over the music.

“Here I am,” she smirks, snaking her arm around Quinn’s waist to steady them.

Step one of laying claim. 

The guy is still stuck to Quinn like glue. When Quinn turns them both in the opposite direction, Santana glares at him, but it doesn’t seem to register.

“Who’s your friend, Quinnie?” he asks, arms around both of them.

 _Quinnie_?

Santana needs to shut this shit down. Fast.

She makes a face, pulling away from his grasp moving away a little, so she and Quinn are side-by-side. OK so, she might be into sex that’s beyond the boundaries of vanilla, and yeah, she’ll try pretty much anything once, but she’s not down for the kind of action that this dude’s clearly fantasizing about. Not anymore. She doesn’t play well with others, and the concept of sharing has always been kind of lost on her. Quinn has seriously questionable taste in men. Just from the way he’s looking at them both, Santana feels like she needs a shower to scrub herself clean. How she ever thought that was the right kind of attention to attract, she’ll never know.

“Santana,” Quinn giggles, in that cute way she does when she’s well on the way to wasted, and Santana tries not to laugh or roll her eyes. “Santana is my best friend … She works at Coyote Ugly.”

At that, the guy’s eyes bug right out of his head, and Santana smiles, because that’s the kind of appreciation she’s happy to take credit for.

“Tyler, isn’t she fucking beautiful?” 

Santana’s busy trying to find them an out, as well as processing the whole Tyler thing – because, of _course_ he has a ridiculously douchey name to go with his ridiculously douchey lack of personality – and gets caught off-guard, because Quinn’s in her face again, closer than she was before, caressing her face, tracing her jawline and then stroking her hair. Hearing Quinn cuss is still really weird, even though she’s like it all the time in bed – all “fuck yes” and begging for more. That begging gets shameless when she has her head between Quinn’s legs; mouth and tongue working her over, fingers buried deep and curling to tip her over the edge. Santana will freely admit that most girls really like it when she goes down on them, she has something of a talent for it, but Quinn really does love it.

She’s tempted to have a little throwback moment, and give the guy his floorshow, and pull Quinn into a kiss. A few well-placed moans, a little tongue action, maybe some ass grabbing, and he’d be satisfied. Maybe. It wouldn’t be a hardship. Nothing gets the message across like some decent make out, and Quinn’s a _very_ enthusiastic kisser, even before booze gets added into the equation.

“Totally,” Tyler agrees, pressing closer Quinn again, hands on her shoulders, glancing over at Santana, licking his lips. It’s gotten super uncomfortable out of nowhere. “You’d be super hot together too.”

“We are,” Quinn purrs, smiling at him in a way that’s definitely _not_ sweet.

“All the time,” Santana throws in, casually, with the same level of intent, just to see what he does. 

“I’ll bet.”

“Lucky we’re not neighbours, we’d keep you up,” Quinn nods. “We have a lot of fun and make a lot of noise while doing it.”

It’d be funny, what Quinn’s saying, because it’s true, except Santana’s not laughing, she’s turned the fuck on, because Quinn’s saying it in that lower, rougher tone of hers that Santana literally knows as her ‘sex voice.’ When she’s had it, when she wants it, during it, when she’s trying dirty talk on the phone. It totally works. The guy’s practically foaming at the mouth now, about half a millisecond away from saying, ‘let me watch.’

Santana just arches an eyebrow, and smirks at him.

That’s it, she’s done with playing nice to get them out of the situation unscathed, whether she wants to kiss Quinn or not. She really wants to right now, because that newly dyed red hair of hers – beauty of it dulled under these lights – totally does it for her. Santana’s thing is usually blondes, but it’s all Scarlett Johansson-slash-Black Widow-y, and Quinn works the _shit_ out of it. Suddenly, she’s confident and sexy, like Santana's only seen her once before, back when she persuaded her into a haircut when they were in New York for Nationals. If this dude wasn’t here, she’d have Quinn on the nearest available surface, get a cab back to the loft and go another round or three while there’s no one to interrupt. God bless multiple orgasms and the stamina they got from all those years of Cheerios training.

Before Quinn carries on and tells him half their life story, Santana cuts her off.

“Listen, dude,” she pauses, just so she knows she has his attention. Quinn is doing nothing to help hers, because she’s grinding up against her, hands roaming and squeezing her ass, which makes what has to be said kind of pointless, but Santana figures it needs to be broken down into small words. “I don’t know what your deal is here, but let’s just say, she’s not for you, OK?” 

She pulls Quinn closer, and God love her, whether she means to or not, Quinn chooses the perfect time to get extra handsy and nuzzles into her neck, kissing it. Santana just smiles, smug and triumphant as she watches it dawn on him. Within seconds, he’s all bruised macho pride and flaring nostrils, and it’s kind of pathetic. He shakes his head, saying all sorts of shit that neither of them can really hear, because the track’s changed and it’s even louder than before. Just because she can, she gives Quinn a little turn, showing off a little. She makes out the odd word, just from reading his lips. It’s all variations on the same shit she used to hear from guys whenever they’d get off on her and Brittany making out; that they’re sluts and teases and whatever else they can think of to boost their crushed egos.

He got the message loud and clear. Her work is done. Step two of laying claim complete.

“Come on Princess, time to get some air,” Santana says, pulling Quinn close.

“No! I wanna stay, I wanna dance,” Quinn protests, resisting when Santana attempts to lead her away.

“We’ll get back in, it’s cool. Trust me.” 

That’s pretty much bullshit, because once they’re outside, they’re outside. There’s no admittance after midnight, and it’s already well after. Their only option is to climb through the tiny window that leads to the cesspit they dare to call a bathroom, and there’s no way that’s happening, because it’s not remotely sanitary, and they’d probably come out with an STD just from breathing in the recycled air.

Getting beyond the crazy mass of people is just as hard as Santana thought it was going to be. She moves as quickly as she can, forcing her way through, glaring when anyone doesn’t move. Most of them are tripping so they’ve checked in their motor functions at the door, making it something of a losing battle. When she looks back, there’s some decent space between them and that Tyler guy, and she feels better. Santana doesn’t want to think about how easily it could still go sour, and then she and Quinn are the stars of that _CSI_ scene she’s already imagined. This is what Miss Pillsbury – Schuester, whatever she is – would call a ‘teachable moment,’ but it’s nothing Santana didn’t already know. She holds on to Quinn’s hand tight – too tight maybe, but she’s scared of losing her – as they force their way through, and she’s never been more relieved when she sees that huge security dude who’s twice her size, because if Tyler decides he wants to follow, then at least he’ll get knocked on his ass for trying. 

They stumble out on to the street, laughing. The change in temperature nearly floors her completely, making her skin prickle and turn to gooseflesh. Her jacket’s still inside. She pushes the hair back off of her face where it’s sticking – she feels all gross and sweaty and decidedly unsexy, but hey, they’re both OK – and just takes a moment to breathe, really glad of it. Letting Quinn go, she paces out some of her giddiness and adrenaline jitters, taking huge gulps of air while she listens to Quinn do much the same, laughing mostly to herself, but maybe to the weirdness of it all. For a few moments, Santana didn’t know if she’d suddenly stepped into the middle of a porno or a Chuck Palahniuk novel. 

Wow, she really _is_ spending too much time with Quinn.

In all seriousness, that was a close call, closer than she’d ever admit if Quinn asked her about what happened tonight when they’re both a lot more sober. When she’s gathered herself, she looks around to find Quinn leaning against the wall; eyes unashamedly drinking her in, inch by inch, beckoning her with a ‘come hither’ wag of her finger.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” Quinn declares, sweetly.

“What can I say?” Santana shrugs, “I’m a sucker for a damsel in dis–” 

Santana’s cut off by Quinn’s mouth on hers, kissing her hungrily, pushing her back against the bare brick of the warehouse. She tastes like tequila and lime and Southern Comfort. Santana’s just getting into it, pulling Quinn closer and swiping her tongue against Quinn’s parted lips when she pulls away. Even though it’s over as quickly as it began, Santana’s kind of stunned, because they’re in a _very_ public place right now, and Quinn’s usually all about low-key and the cheap thrill that comes with fooling around in secret. 

“See,” Quinn starts, in this soft little drawl that hits somewhere low in Santana’s belly. “I was just wondering when you’d have the balls to come and claim me back. You took longer than I thought. I’m kind of disappointed. I thought Santana Lopez was territorial.”

Santana shakes her head. It’s all been a game. Quinn played her. Hard.

“Oh fuck you!” Santana scoffs, pushing Quinn in the chest. “I was worried he was gonna eat you alive or kidnap you or something.”

“Don’t lie, Santana. You suck at lying,” Quinn shoots back, moving back to her in a way that Santana can’t help but think is predatory. “Admit it, you were jealous because you thought he’d be the one fucking me instead of you.”

Quinn winks at her, all smiles, and Santana doesn’t know whether she wants to slap the crap out of her or fuck her right there against the wall. It’s a common feeling where Quinn is concerned. Logically, Santana knows she should be insulted, and is more than within her rights to be angry, but she’s not. It turns her the fuck on when Quinn’s like this. It means whatever their deal is actually means something. Quinn pulls off this elaborate little scheme just so they can get it on in some dingy alley? Santana might be good, but she’s sure as hell isn’t worth all that work. Quinn must really be hanging out for some. It’s been at least a month since she was last here, so logic’s out the window. There’s not enough blood getting to Santana’s brain for that; greedier parts of her body have already claimed it.

“Oh wow, just how big is your ego these days?”

“About as big as yours, Lopez.” Quinn chuckles.

“Give a girl a decent few roll arounds between the sheets, and now she’s all _cocky_.”

“How about you remind me _why_ I enjoy it so much?” Quinn shoots back, eyebrow quirking, goading her.

This is more like what Santana imagined when Adam pitched this. She figured it’d be easy to get Quinn on her own, and then they could pick up where they left off. Their little bathroom moment was cut painfully short. Santana guesses this is just Quinn’s attempt at payback. Two can play at that game. She can hold out for a very long time, even in the face of a temptation like Quinn, all flushed and horny and clearly desperate, if the way she’s looking at her is any indication.

“I don’t think you’re in position to be demanding anything,” Santana declares, moving closer to Quinn. Close enough to kiss, if she wanted, resting her arms loosely around Quinn’s neck. “Thirty minute cab ride gonna kill you? Good things come to those who wait, sweetie, and you won’t get better than me.”

“Now who’s the cocky one?”

And there it is, that flash of want in Quinn’s eyes, betraying, and it’s all Santana needs. A flimsy reason, but it’s too late in the day to keep this kind of banter up.

This time, Quinn’s the one slammed unceremoniously into the wall. She lets out a little whimper of pain, and secretly, Santana’s pleased, it means she’s left a mark somehow, imagining the scratches on Quinn’s bare shoulders. It also means this matters. She leans up, just a fraction, as if she’s going to kiss her, but instead, she stalls and Quinn grunts in frustration. 

One. Two. Three. 

All the while, Quinn watches, gaze flicking between Santana’s eyes and her mouth, trying to get a read on her, but Santana hides her tells well. She fails miserably, letting out a squeak of surprise – and obvious relief when Santana cups her face, and finally kisses her. It’s soft and slow at first, but quickly deepens, building moment by moment as her tongue dips fast into Quinn’s wanting mouth, lips barely parted. Quinn’s greedy for her, one hand flying to the back of Santana’s head, tangling in her hair, the other skims down her side, resting on her hip. They carry on like that, just kissing for kissing sake, cashing in weeks of waiting, and it’s getting more and more sloppy, a graceless clash of lips and teeth and tongue.

Santana breaks off, lungs crying out for air. She traces a torturously slow trail down Quinn’s neck, tasting the saltiness of her sweat; teeth nipping just enough to make Quinn moan shakily in her exhale. Santana’s hands skim down Quinn’s body, settling on the curve of her ass, contemplating her next move.

“Fuck me,” Quinn hisses.

“What was that?” Santana teases, forcing herself not to smile, because she heard loud and clear. 

“Fuck me,” Quinn repeats, gritting her teeth. “You were all I could think about when I was on the train …” 

“What did you think about? How much you wanted to fuck me?”

Quinn makes a high, strangled noise. Ding-ding. One hundred points to Santana Maribel Lopez. She says nothing more, dropping her hand lower, and playing with the hem of Quinn’s dress, the back of her hand brushing Quinn’s thigh.

“Please, I just ...” Quinn pleads, raw and desperate as her back arches off the wall.

“What?” Santana asks, dropping her head to whisper in Quinn’s ear. “Tell me what you want.”

Quinn shudders, a gasp falling from her lips as Santana’s hand moves up under her dress, bunching it up as she goes.

“I need this … I need you …” 

Quinn sounds pained, like those six words were dragged, kicking and screaming from the very depths of her. For once in her life, Santana’s speechless, and not just because Quinn’s just dropped that huge feelings bomb that she’s not nearly sober enough to process, but because, it appears, that Quinn’s meticulous plan wasn’t just about getting drunk and making her jealous, it was about getting laid. She isn’t wearing any underwear; she’s probably been walking around that way all night. Just from a moment of tentative exploration, stroking back and forth, barely touching Quinn’s clit, Santana realises Quinn’s already wet. Quinn’s wet for her, wetter than she’s ever been, and _fuck_ those two things in combination are almost too much for her to deal with after everything that’s happened. The proof of Quinn’s need is right there on her fingertips. 

“Jesus,” Santana breathes, because she’s got nothing else.

Without another word, Santana captures Quinn’s mouth, kissing her hard, sucking in Quinn’s bottom lip and keeping hold, deepening the kiss. Then, she finally gives Quinn what she wants – what she’s been craving all night – pushing two fingers easily inside of her. For all her teasing, Quinn clearly wasn’t ready, and Santana reaches to steady her, wrapping one of Quinn’s legs around her waist. There’s an undeniable edge of satisfaction to the way Quinn moans and leans into her, clinging on for dear life. Santana hisses as Quinn’s nails bite into her back as she starts to move, achingly slow; in and out, in and out, relishing the tight pull of Quinn’s muscles that draw her deeper each time. 

Well, it looks like they’re about to be a ten-time thing. Officially hitting double digits is a big deal, but Santana doesn’t have the heart to question it or even think of complaining, yet. She’s having way too much fun, and she’s not alone.


End file.
